


(if i could only see) the answer lies in me

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Episode: s01e19 The Only Light in the Darkness, F/M, Season/Series 01, Ward x Simmons Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-23 11:48:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6115520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jemma does Ward a favor.</p>
<p>[For the <b>Supernatural</b> theme at Ward x Simmons Winter.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	(if i could only see) the answer lies in me

**Author's Note:**

> This idea took FOREVER to turn into words (*shakes fist at useless muse*) but finally, here it is!
> 
> Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

“You got a minute?”

Happy for the excuse to stop obsessively hunting down articles on the fall of SHIELD, Jemma sets her tablet aside at once.

“I have several,” she says, swiveling her stool to face Ward. Then she blinks, slightly surprised to find him shirtless.

He excused himself upstairs a good twenty minutes ago, the moment the impromptu briefing that unfolded while Jemma did what she could for his numerous injuries ended. She assumed he was going to fetch a clean shirt, but it appears she was in error.

Or perhaps not, she amends, noting the black bundle of fabric in his hands.

“I need your help,” he says, and she straightens.

“Is something wrong?” She reaches for her medkit blindly, searching him for any new wounds—or previously unidentified old ones, even. “Did I miss something?”

“No, no, not—” Ward grimaces a touch, catching her hand just as it lands on her medkit. “I don’t mean medical help.”

Well, that’s a relief—and also a bit of a puzzle. She frowns.

“What sort of help did you have in mind, then?”

He takes a deep breath that _must_ hurt, considering the state of his ribs, although of course he gives no sign of it. Specialists, honestly.

“The…psychic kind of help,” he says, hand pressing a little more firmly over hers. “I need to find someone.”

Her heart sinks. “Oh, I—I’m sorry, Ward, but my ability doesn’t work that way.” She darts a glance at the bundle of fabric he’s dropped on the counter, wondering to whom it might belong. One of the escaped prisoners, perhaps, or a fellow agent he hopes to bring in to their fold? Either way, a piece of clothing isn’t likely to do him any good. “There has to be an emotional connection.”

SHIELD tested her ability extensively when she was first Indexed, of course, and they were forever coming to her asking her to identify _this_ unknown terrorist by a fragment of the bomb he set off or locate _this_ international criminal with a napkin she used to dab her lipstick three weeks ago, and so on and so forth.

At the time, she was disappointed—and even embarrassed—by her repeated failures; now, she can only be grateful for the limits of her ability.

She shudders to imagine what might have happened to her—what use HYDRA might have put her to—if her lacking power hadn’t led her superiors to decide she was of more use as a scientist than a psychic. She might even now be locked in a lab, forced to hunt down those agents who escaped HYDRA’s grasp this week.

Just the thought is enough to sicken her.

Ward squeezes her hand gently, drawing her attention back to him. He’s watching her with concern that doesn’t ease at all when she gives him a reassuring smile.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Of course,” she says lightly. She has the horrible urge to thank him for killing John Garrett—the things he said at the Hub regarding his plans for her ability have been keeping her up at night—but, as Garrett _was_ Ward’s mentor, no matter his crimes, restrains herself. “I’m sorry I can’t help you.”

“Actually, you can,” he says, and reaches for the discarded bundle. “Or I _hope_ you can. There’s definitely an emotional connection here, at least.”

He unrolls the fabric (which proves to be one of those Henleys that suit him so well), revealing a child’s toy in the center of it. Specifically, it’s a Captain America action figure—an old one, judging by its condition. It appears to have been put through the ringer: not only is it covered in scratches, the paint on the shield has been almost entirely worn away.

(Jemma tries not to find any symbolism in that.)

She blinks at it, ghosting her fingers over the patch on its shoulder. Even without exerting any sort of effort, she can feel the memories humming inside of the well-loved toy, vibrating along the edge of her awareness.

Well. He’s not wrong. There is _absolutely_ an emotional connection to this toy.

“Ward,” she says slowly. “Who is it, precisely, that you want me to find?”

His gaze is locked on her face, eyes intent enough to make her blush. It’s a heady feeling, being the object of such focus, and it’s made doubly so by her ridiculous, humiliating crush on him.

Of course, it’s also fairly worrying. If his tension is any indication, this must be a very personal request.

Sure enough, his answer is a succinct, “My brother.”

She stares.

“I know this isn’t really the time,” he hurries to add, perhaps misinterpreting her stunned silence as disapproval, “with HYDRA and—”

“No,” she interrupts, “no, it’s fine. Of _course_ I’ll help you find your brother, Ward.” It’s her turn to cover _his_ hand where it rests at the edge of his shirt. “I was simply surprised. I didn’t know you even had a brother.”

“Two, actually.” His smile isn’t a happy one. “But Thomas—my little brother—ran away while I was at military school. No one could ever find him. I’m hoping you’ll have better luck.”

“Well, I’ll certainly do my best,” she promises, and releases his hand to reach for the toy.

She doesn’t bother to brace herself before picking it up. That never helps. She simply holds it to her heart and opens her senses.

Emotion slams into her first, as always. Anger boils her blood as terror steals her breath, and love wraps around her shoulders—a childish love, buzzing with innocence and devotion and none of the complexity romance brings—as happiness settles in her chest.

She pushes past all of it, forcing herself not to speculate on Ward’s childhood. A favored toy that brings forth negative emotions before the positive is a bad sign—but emotions aren’t what she’s looking for, just the means to find it. She sinks them into herself, reaching for their source, reaching _beyond—_

There.

She sees…a kitchen. There’s a man standing in front of a pantry, staring blankly at its contents, and the moment he sharpens into focus, the angerterrorlovehappiness begin to leech out of her, flowing toward their owner.

Her own relief tries to intrude—for as long as Thomas must have been missing, she worried she would see a shallow grave—but she brushes it aside. She needs to concentrate.

She reaches further, trying to bring forth details which will give her a location. It’s cold wherever he is—the chill freezes her bones—but that might simply be his preferred thermostat setting, so it’s no help as a clue.

Behind Thomas, across from the pantry, is a refrigerator. There are photographs on it—Thomas and a woman with red hair, a tall tree with two young boys sleeping at the base of it, the redheaded woman crouched next to a dog—and…there! A take-away menu under a snowflake-shaped magnet.

She grasps for it, attempting to force the blurry shapes into words—there must be an address on the menu, and an address is precisely what she needs—but the pounding in her temples tells her she’s nearly out of time. Each beat of her heart brings her closer to her body…and pulls her farther away from Thomas.

The shapes clear into letters, which resolve themselves into words for a fraction of a second, and then—

_Snap_.

She slams back into her own skin so forcefully her head spins, and Ward steadies her as she very nearly sways right off the stool. Shaking from exhaustion and lingering chill, she clings to him, reveling in the warmth of his skin. Her heart hammers painfully in her chest.

“San Diego,” she rasps, and Ward’s fingers dig into her arms. “He’s in San Diego—” She scrambles for the rest of the address, but it slips away like water from her cupped hands, and the only other thing she can manage is, “—within the delivery area of Gaslamp Pizza.”

All the air rushes out of Ward, and for a moment she actually worries he’s about to faint. Instead, he moves, and in the blink of an eye he’s gone from supporting her to _hugging_ her. Hugging her!

If only she didn’t feel so wretched, she might be giddy. As it is, it’s still a close thing—Ward is _hugging her_! He’s not sheltering her from gunfire or keeping her from falling to her death, he is actually, truly embracing her, and—

—And when did she revert back to being an infatuated preteen? Gleeful and bubbling over a _hug_ , really? This crush is definitely getting out of hand. She needs to get herself under control.

Just…as soon as this is over. For a man so opposed to non-violent physical contact, Ward is excellent at hugging. It would be a shame not to enjoy it.

“Thank you,” he says into her hair, voice so full of emotion that her eyes sting with sympathetic tears.

“You’re welcome,” she says. “I’m sorry I couldn’t give you a more exact location.”

Ward laughs quietly. “You gave me more than I’ve managed to find in fifteen years, Jemma. So, really. Thank you.”

Her cheeks burn at his use of her first name, and she hides her face in his shoulder.

“I’m glad I could help,” she says, a bit shakily.

One of his hands—his large, strong, lovely hands—smooths gently over her back. “Are you okay? That looked like it took a lot out of you.”

“It did,” she admits, “but then, it always does. I’ll be right as rain once I get something to eat.” She pauses, considering the weakness in her limbs. “And perhaps a nap.”

“Well,” he says, easing away from her, “I can’t help you with the nap, but Skye walked me past a pretty big kitchen on my way in. Come on, I’ll make you some dinner.”

“Oh, you don’t have to—”

Ward presses a finger to her lips, silencing her very effectively. She swallows.

“It’s the least I can do,” he says, eyes soft. “Please?”

He lifts his finger, inviting her to speak, but she thinks she’ll be lucky if she manages to find her voice this _week_. She settles for a nod.

“Great,” he says, and crouches to pick up the forgotten Captain America figure, which she must have dropped at some point. She’s expecting him to keep hold of it; instead, he sets it on the counter and then takes her hand, lacing his fingers with hers. “Come on.”

He holds her hand the whole way to the kitchen. Jemma tries not to read anything into it.


End file.
